


Blood and Water

by HouseAu3



Series: The Hale Files [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseAu3/pseuds/HouseAu3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Derek buried Laura and Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Water

Stiles only knows about it the day before the burial. He’s having breakfast with his dad when he overhears him talking to Derek on phone. He is, perhaps unreasonably, pissed and not just a little hurt. His dad plucks the phone out of his hand and gives him a stern look before he can text Derek something he’d undoubtedly regret later.

“What would you have done?” his dad asks. “Everyone mourns differently.”

And Stiles should know better. He knew better when he was barely ten, and he knows better now. Derek hasn’t acted any differently the past few days. He did his community service, replied to only one of the twenty text messages Stiles sent him, didn’t talk much but sometimes smile a little when their paths crossed, and accepted his dad’s dinner invitation with a resigned look. It’s not unlike how he had been after his mom’s death. Maintaining the facade of normalcy had been the only way for him to keep himself together, to not be torn apart by grief. Sometimes he feels like it still is.

“I’ll just, ask him politely,” Stiles says, reaching for his phone. “Not going to say anything stupid. I promise. He might just ignore me altogether anyway.”

His dad looks at him carefully, and then gives him his phone back.

Stiles thinks about how he should go about it. He types in “how are you”, and then deletes the line. “I heard about the not-funeral” doesn’t sound any better. He sighs, and settles for _Can I come over?_

Derek’s answer comes sooner than he expected, but as short as he thought it would be. Just one simple word: _no_

_I mean tomorrow_ , Stiles adds.

He receives the response after a few minutes: _I don’t know._  

_You don’t know?_

_I don’t know if I want you here._

Stiles stares at it for a while, thumb hovering over the keyboards. _What if I want to be there?_

Derek hasn’t replied when his dad tells him it’s time for school. He hasn’t replied when he gets to school and meets with Scott, and when he’s sitting in the cafeteria alone because Scott and Allison decided to have a lunch date on the rooftop. Maybe he has said something wrong. Maybe Derek thinks he’s imposing. He pulls up Derek’s numbers, but doesn’t dare to press the call button. It’s not the first time he’s hoped he could learn more about the triskelion on his lower stomach. Derek has let slip that he can see how Stiles’ feeling by reading his aura through their link, but he refuses to tell him how. Stiles can only feel when they are in close proximity, and on the rare occasions where Derek’s actively pouring warm feelings to him.

“Watch it,” someone growls at him when he bumps into him staring at his phone. Stiles murmurs an apology without looking up and walks straight into a wall. Laughter erupts behind his back. He shoves his phone into his pocket and stalks off in mortification. He’s making something out of nothing. It’s not as if Derek always responds to his texts. He probably just gets annoyed or has better things to do.

It’s not exactly a more comforting thought.

He thinks about asking Scott, but if Derek wants to keep it secret, then who is he to tell? He doesn’t see Scott the rest of the day anyway. He’s probably off to Allison’s house to learn about his magic or experiment with their machines-killing chemistry or both. He resolutely does not look at his phone even once on his way home; apart from his fingers twitching in his pockets, itching to reach for it, he manages just fine.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s only natural that Derek would want to do this alone, and he won’t be mad just because Stiles wants to be there for him. He’s not that unreasonable. Even if he’s mad, big deal, it’s not as if he will stay mad forever. And since when does Derek being mad become something that bothers him this much?

His dad leaves a note on the fridge saying he can’t be home for dinner. Stiles is just about to order take out when the doorbell rings. He opens the door and finds Derek standing behind it, carrying a bag of groceries.

“I don’t have a kitchen,” Derek says by way of explanation, which doesn’t really explain anything, but he’s here, and Stiles doesn’t want him to leave just yet; so he simply says, “Use ours then,” and steps aside to let him in.

Seeing Derek dicing vegetables with practiced ease is a little bizarre, but he shouldn’t be surprised; after all he’s read about Derek preparing thanksgiving meals when he was stalking Laura’s Facebook. Stiles steps into the kitchen cautiously and asks, “Anything I can do?”

“It’s not for dinner,” Derek says without looking up.

Then what is it for? Stiles doesn’t ask. Instead, what he says is “I’ll prepare dinner then?”

Derek pauses. “Okay.”

Stiles rummages through the fridge for ingredients. Thank god he’s just gone to the market last Sunday. “Potato lasagna okay for you?” he calls over his shoulder. Derek makes a sound of assent. Stiles takes what he needs out and makes sure to grab more potatoes than he’d normally use. Derek’s never expressed his preference for food, but Stiles has more or less figure out some of his favorites and dislikes in the couple of times Derek had dinner with them. Derek despises sweet potatoes, but loves potatoes; he has no problem with ketchup or things made with tomato paste, but always swallows fresh tomatoes with a grimace. It’s hilarious and oddly endearing that Derek’s a fussy eater; he imagines Derek’s parents trying to coax him into eating carrots or green beans or the long array of foods Derek doesn’t like, and his heart breaks a little. 

(His mom used to proudly tell others that Stiles would eat literally anything she prepared. It wasn’t that he loved all kinds of foods; he just loved his mom.)

The kitchen wasn’t really that big. They have to take turns using the stoves and clean up the counter to make room for the others, but Stiles doesn’t mind; it actually feels… nice to bump shoulders with someone even though that someone is doing his own things and doesn’t makes a sound other than breathing. Stiles fills the silence talking about Scott learning magic, about schools and lacrosse practice, and about how some of the people Derek’s visited in community service adore him. Derek gives nothing but silence in response, but Stiles finds that he doesn’t mind that, either. At least at this moment he doesn’t.

“So I may have accidentally introduce Beatrice to urban dictionary and I regret it ever since. I feel like I’ve corrupted her.” Stiles puts the lasagna into the oven, and then turns back to look at Derek’s muscled back. Has he become even more muscular than when they first met? “She insists that I call her ‘bae’. God I hate that word, but how can I say no to her?”

Shockingly, Derek has actually been listening to his ramble; he snorts and shakes his head as he divides what he’s made into different tupperwares. Stiles still isn’t sure what all these foods are for; There are steak sandwiches. There’s the fried mixture of minced shrimps, carrots, and some kind of vegetable Stiles doesn’t even recognize. There are lettuce and some smashed crispy thingy. There are sushi rolls and _parathas_. They’re so widely different Stiles can only presume that this is for many different people, but who, and why?

“Finished?” Stiles asks, and gets a responding nod. “Dinner should be done in half an hour.”

Derek turns to face him the first time since he set food in the kitchen. He looks a little tired, but otherwise no different from usual. Stiles chuckles at the patch of flour on the tips of his nose. He reaches out to wipe at it without thinking. Derek flinches back, leaving his hand hovering awkwardly between them.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters and pulls his hand back, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “You have flour on your nose.”

Derek wipes it off. “I’m not -” he starts, and then he lets out a long breath, eyes casting downward. “You can come. Tomorrow.”

“Um,” Stiles says. “You sure?”

Derek gives him a barely visible nod.

“Cool.” Stiles almost slaps himself. “I mean it’s obviously not cool. It’s just - ” He buries his face in his hands. “Oh god why does my mouth like my foot so much?”

The silence lasts for about ten seconds, but Stiles swears it feels like a lifetime has passed when Derek breaks the silence with a soft sigh. Stiles lifts his head to peek between his fingers, and feels relief rushes through him at the sight of a half smile on Derek’s face.

“Idiot,” Derek says, almost fondly.

“I have it on good authority that I’m quite genius in some respect,” Stiles says with feign indignant. “But you know, when God opens a door, he has to close a window.”

It’s not his best line, but Derek laughs and that’s what matters, no matter how brief and reserved that laugh is.

“Come on,” Stiles says when the timer he’s set up starts bleeping. “Dinner’s ready. I have to tell you how much our resident old ladies love you.” Stiles opens the oven. It looks great. “Hey, do you know that the whole BHPD calls you grumpy-old-men-whisperer behind your back?”

*

Stiles stares at his reflection in the mirror. Is he being too formal? After all there isn’t really a ceremony, and there probably wouldn’t even be any other people. Stiles tucks his shirt into his pants and takes off the suit jacket; instead he put on the leather coat Derek has mended and given back to him. It seems fitting, somehow.

When he reaches the Hale house and sees Derek in the backyard kneeling beside two coffins alone, with two holes already dug on the ground and a shovel laid in one of them, he realizes that Derek didn’t even hire a funeral service to help with the burial. He’s seized by the sudden urge to turn away and run, because what business does he have here? He’s an outsider. At best he counts as a friend. This is a moment way too private for him to intrude. But at the same time he wants nothing but to hold Derek in his arms and cry for him. Derek is in no way fragile, but he looks awfully vulnerable at this moment.

He puts his pack on the porch, slowly walks over to Derek, and kneels down beside him, who’s carving symbols on the coffin with a blank look. Derek doesn’t look at him or do anything to acknowledge his existence, but Stiles doesn’t dare to even make a sound. So he waits, staring at the movement of Derek’s hands, mesmerized by their precision and total lack of hesitation. He’s dying to know what those symbols are, but manage to tempt down his curiosity. Small miracle.

When Derek finishes carving the last symbol, and brushes away the dust, he finally lifts his head to meet his eyes. “Give me a hand.”

Stiles bites down the nervous laugh threatening to come out of his mouth, and walks to the other end of the coffin. He helps Derek lower the two coffins into the graves, but he suspect Derek’s been bearing most of the weight. There’s a metaphor somewhere that’s overused but sadly true in this case.

Derek puts a dagger on Peter’s coffin and a staff on Laura’s, his hands slightly trembling. “Requiescat in pace,” Derek murmurs, and starts covering the graves with bare hands. Stiles stands frozen behind him. He has absolutely no idea what he should be doing right now, so again he just watches, hands holding onto the fabric of his pants. He’s never felt so far from someone mere inches away before.

Derek stays silent the whole time until the graves are covered. “Fucking useless,” Derek mutters. “Can’t even have headstones for them.”

“Derek?” Stiles asks carefully. “What’s wrong?”

Derek lets out a humorless laugh. “I don’t want their bodies to be abused, but I can’t protect them.” He sits down between the newly covered ground and rests his head on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and then gasps as the bracelet on his wrist shines bright and violent, blood seeping out of his arm and dripping onto the ground.

“Derek-” Stiles rushes to his side, but Derek lifts up a hand, gesturing him to stop.

“Let me,” he says, right hand holding onto his left arm, knuckles white.

“But-”

“Just fucking let me!”

“Why even let me come then?” Stiles snaps. ”I should have asked you yesterday, but do you even want me here?” He rubs his face roughly. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’ll just-” He makes a wild gestures at the jeep.

“Yes,” Derek says, tugging at his coat to stop him.

“What?”

“Yes, I want you here,” Derek says in an unsteady voice. “But let me hurt.”

“God damn it.” Stiles sits down next to Derek and bumps their shoulders together. “Just know this, It’s really fucking hard to watch someone hurting and not do anything, okay? I’m showing remarkable restraint here.”

Derek chokes out a broken laugh, his whole body trembling. Stiles can practically see the silent screaming in his taut muscles. He swears under his breath and tucks his hands under his folded legs.

“Just think of how I was like the first time we met,” Derek says, a little breathless. ”Might make it easier.”

“Sure, I’ll try to remember how much you hated me at first,” Stiles says dryly, pressing himself even closer to Derek. It might have been weird if he’s not so desperately trying to stop himself from grabbing Derek’s bloody arm. “Nope, it didn’t work, because I care about you, you ass.”

“Never hated you.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “You just don’t trust me.”

“Didn’t.”

“Oh.” Stiles stares at Derek’s face. He’s sweating, eyes shut and jaw clenched, but even then Stiles can still see the little smile that somehow overpowers the pain on his face and be seen. His mind, as usual, goes for levity when he isn’t sure what to say. “You’re totally gonna deny you’ve said that later, aren’t you?”

Derek snorts. “Probably.”

The light has weakened to a faint glow, and the bleeding stopped. He listens to Derek breathing in and out deeply, and realizes he has been unconsciously inhaling and exhaling at the same time. Slowly, he finds himself relaxing, muscle by muscle.

“I once yelled at Scott for not letting me grieve,” Stiles says. “It was maybe two weeks after my mom’s death. Scott kept trying to drag me out of my room, saying I couldn’t get better if I locked myself in. One day I just sort of… snapped. I told him I didn’t want to get better, would he just fuck off and leave me be already?” Stiles chuckles. “He walked to the door to lock it, and just stayed in my room with me. We didn’t step out even when his mom came to pick him up, and when my dad yelled at us to come out already - no pun intended.”

He darts his eyes to his left and meets one of the most amazing pair of eyes he’s ever seen on anyone. It seems almost magical, the way they reflects different colors all at once. Sometimes there’s such intensity in them that it can be unnerving to be the subject of their scrutiny; sometimes they can go so soft like right now that Stiles almost forget to how to breathe.

“My dad had to find a locksmith to unlock the door. He had no idea how to punish me for the trouble, because I’d happily be grounded for months at that time. Mrs. McCall was going to ground Scott, but he just sort of looked at me, and then looked back at her. She couldn’t possibly stop him from seeing me.”

“You are very close friends.”

Stiles laughs. “We were each other’s only friend until just recently, when Scott met Allison and they became inseparable, which is kind of pathetic when you think about it.” Stiles smiles a little. “I used to think he’d die in three days if I wasn’t with him; now I think he’ll be just fine though. He has Allison.”

Hesitant hand finds his shoulder and lays there. Stiles blinks at Derek’s hand, and then at Derek’s face. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend,” Derek says, not quite looking at him.

Stiles grins at him. “Consider yourself lucky then.”

Derek snorts. “Well, friend, we should probably get the party started.”

“What?” Stiles remembers the food Derek’s stored in their fridge and asked him to bring. “Oh, that’s what that is. I’ll go get it.”

When he grabs his backpack and gets back, Derek has laid a picnic blanket on the ground and is currently lying on it. It’s surreal to say the least. He takes the tupperwares out of his bag and lays them on Derek’s stomach. He just couldn’t resist. Derek’s responding glare only serves to make him cackle.

“I think I prefer when you were scared of me.”

“I've never been scared of you,” Stiles scoffs. “You’re just a big softie, like a muscled teddy bear.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Yeah, I just realized that.”

Derek sits up and opens all the containers. He picks up a piece of sushi roll and says, “My mom’s favorite.”

_Oh_. “And the other?”

“Laura used to force me to make steak sandwiches for her at least once a week.” Derek the sushi roll into his mouth. “My dad loved indian food. Cora loved Chinese. I made the minced shrimp with lettuce for her once.” He swallows. “Never know what Peter liked.” He pushes the box of sushi rolls toward Stiles.

“Thanks.” Stiles tries one, and curses in his head because no one should be this perfect. Derek can’t be gorgeous and fit and secretly a good person _and_ a good cook. “You have to teach me how to make this. Mrs. McCall will love it, and I need her support in my ongoing battle to make my dad eat healthy.”

“I don’t think you need bribery for that.”

“No, but teach me anyway.”

Derek lies back down with a steak sandwich in his hand. “Yeah, why the hell not.”

When Stiles’ dad swings by in the afternoon, they have finished about half of everything, and Stiles has demanded to know how every one of them is done. He’s now lying on the blanket, seconds away from drifting off to sleep, while Derek simply sits beside him in silence.

“Did he put you up to this?” his dad asks. Stiles jerks awake and slams his head into Derek’s shoulder, which feels not unlike slamming into a cement wall or getting hit by a brick. He groans, nursing his nose in his hand, and jabs Derek in the ribs for laughing at him, even though in silent.

“No,” Derek says, a hint of laughter in the slight tremble of his voice, “Laura did.”

“Huh.” His dad leans over to look at what is left of their two man party. “Mind if I grab something? I need to go back to the station in half an hour. Haven’t had the chance to eat.”

Derek nods. His dad is just about to reach for the last steak sandwich, but Stiles beats him to it.

“Anything but this.”

“Stiles -”

“Nope. I was told you had cheeseburger for lunch yesterday.”

His dad groans and grabs the remaining sushi rolls instead. “You’re terrible.”

“Hey, those sushi rolls are awesome. You can thank us later.” Stiles jumps to his feet and gives his dad a brief hug. “Mostly Derek, since they were made by him and all, but you can thank me for having a good taste.”

His dad raises an eyebrow. “In men?”

“ _In food,_ ” Stiles exclaims. “Oh my god you are _terrible_ I can’t believe you just said that.”

His dad laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at dinner, son.” He walks backward toward the patrol car. “You coming, Derek? We can finish the leftover.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at his dad. “I’m totally finishing that sandwich before you get home.”

Derek chuckles, which is a new development and Stiles is unreasonably pleased with himself. “I’ll be there,” Derek says. “Not with the sandwich I’m afraid. That’s for Cooper.”

“Albert Cooper?” his dad asks.

Derek nods. Now Stiles is unreasonably proud of Derek. He really needs to get a grip. He’s not his father, god damn it.

“See you then.” His dad gives them a tupperware salute before leaving.

“Now I see how you become a grumpy-old-men-whisperer,” Stiles says gleefully, leaning down to poke at Derek’s shoulder. “You gets to their heart through their stomachs!”

Derek cuffs his head. “Sterculus.”

“Hey, I’ve totally looked that up and I can full well understand that you were calling me names.”

“Asinus stultissimus.”

“Okay, I haven’t looked that up but I’m still pretty sure you were calling me names.”

Derek flicks his forehead and laughs. Stiles can’t tell if he is laughing at him or because of him, but at that moment, he doesn’t care at all as long as Derek’s laughing.

*

The next morning he goes to the cemetery to visit his mom’s grave. When he gets there, he sees a stack of paper piling beside the headstone. He picks them up and reads through the familiar handwriting. They are recipes.

Stiles sits down on the ground and crosses his legs. “Hey, mom, so, I have to tell you about this new friend of mine.” He goes on and on with a huge smile practically painted on his face. At the end his face muscle is almost hurting from smiling too much.

“You’d have loved him,” he says, and drops a kiss on his mom’s name.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, sterculus still means little shit in Latin. Asinus stultissimus is literary dumbest or very dumb donkey, which basically means dumbass.
> 
> This is so not in my original plan. I swear I've been working on the second bag part of the series, but I've been stuck in the first chapter _forever_ it's just sad.


End file.
